Decade
by latetothpartyhp
Summary: The past ten years have all led up to this. Written for selene2 for the legendary women auction. Beta'd by iluvaqt - many thanks to her for that. Selective spoilers through Lazarus - will contain some collateral Clois and Chlollie in the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

DARKSEID

"So," he said. "What have you brought me?"

"An opportunity."

He nodded. "I see many opportunities in this situation. None of them involve that little inhaler there, so why don't you tell me what's in it before I seize the day in other ways."

The man in front of him did not blink. "You've heard of amobarbital?"

"I have. Is that the opportunity? The chance to listen to men babble?"

"No, because with this compound is not amobarbital. This compound does what the creators of amobarbital only dreamt of doing: rather than depressing the nervous system of the interviewee, if you will, stimulates the psyche of the interviewer."

That idea was intriguing. "It creates telepathy?"

"Almost. Once this compound is inhaled, the inhaler can ask any question of anyone and receive a truthful answer - well, as truthful as the person answering believes it to be."

"So there is babbling."

"You've heard the phrase 'shit in, shit out'?"

He laughed, and picked up the inhaler. "You're telling me I breathe this in and you'll tell me who you're working for, where your girlfriend lives, that your favorite show is _Dancing__with__the__Stars_?"

"Yes, yes and no. My favorite show is _Survivor_."

"All right. We'll have to test that. What are the side effects?"

"Good question. The primary side effect is death, preceded by cramping, nausea, chest pain and other symptoms of a myocardial infarction."

"And how long between inhalation and onset of these symptoms?"

"Eight to ten hours."

"You mentioned amobarbital earlier. Can this stuff work on the catatonic?"

"As far as I know that hasn't been tried, but since it works to enhance the psychic powers of the questioner, I don't see why not."

"How much of it do you got?"

He watched from behind a two-way mirror, marveling at how irrational the human mind was. The kid would perform very differently if he could actually see his boss watching him, and so his boss hid. It was one of the downsides of the suggestibility of the human mind, he supposed. Today, however, he planned to concentrate on the upsides.

The girl lay on her back, a position he was told she had assumed 26 hours previously. She moved only when instructed, to eat or to shit, and otherwise resumed her repose. It was a breath-taking accomplishment, and all the more so because he didn't know who - or what - had done it. The resonance from the signal he'd received had been warped somehow. Warped by whoever had done this to her. Was it a gift, a tribute of some kind? Or a clue, laid down by some being that had previously traveled this way? As the kid entered the room he stood, unconsciously pressing his palm to the glass.

"What color are your eyes?" the kid began. They had very few control questions, and none that she had the capacity to lie about, but he wanted to see if he could detect any differences.

"Green."

"Where were you born?"

"Metropolis."

"Did you live in Smallville, Kansas during October 1989?"

"No."

"How tall are you?"

"Five feet, four inches."

"What is your name?"

She smiled. His breath caught for a moment. It was the first expression he had seen her make.

"_I__am__Lazarus__, __come__from__the__dead__, __come__back__to__tell__you__all__, __I__shall__tell__you__all__,_" she said.

MXYZPTLK

He watched a left hook hit its mark square in the jaw and glanced at his watch. 10:30. Only 10:30. Four more hours of this to go. He wasn't going to make it, he knew that. His mind would implode from the boredom and he would be left a vegetable, with so much potential wasted. He signaled to the server, who rolled her eyes. "_Go_," he said, and she did, despite not having heard him, headed to the bar and back. She didn't bother with a glass, just brought the whole bottle with her.

"I need a glass," he told her.

She looked around. "You think this crowd cares?"

"You think these assholes know good vodka when they taste it? I care. Get me a glass." He pulled out a c-note and handed it to her. "Please."

She twisted her mouth, but did as she was told, this time of her own volition. God, if the Boss had the common sense just to pay these idiots off, his life would be a whole lot more exciting right now. He could be watching reruns of _Friends_ right now. Or _Two__and__a__Half__Men_. He hadn't seen the first runs of either, so at least whatever happened would be a surprise.

Unlike tonight. He poured himself a shot and downed it, then three more. It wasn't as if his "job performance" would be affected. He glanced at his watch again. 10:43. He glanced back up at the fight. Neal clearly had the upper hand, but that, he knew, was not expected to last. The smart money - by which was meant the Boss' money - was on Lesner. He checked the Boss' box. Empty. He had a few more minutes. He poured himself another shot.

10:46. Lesner began the new round with energy. Good, that was good. That made it that much more believable. And the Boss was in place now. The Boss always wanted to see the fall. Well, he was glad somebody did. He focused on the match now. He needed to catch a good hit of Lesner's. The guy was making some punches, but nothing that said knock-out; they were still too close. Jesus, he was really going to have to micro-manage this thing. "_Stumble_," he whispered, as Lesner landed a hit to Neal's ribs. To the other spectators, it looked as if the force of Lesner's hit was enough to throw Neal off-balance. Neal stepped back, putting his weight on the outer edge of his foot. Lesner swiped Neal's chest, not a forceful blow, but Neal was shaky and he, Mikhail, had a job to do. "_Fall_," he whispered, and Neal fell.

The crowd went wild. He poured another drink.

Eventually, the booze caught up with him. That was only natural, he was a Mxyzptlk, not some meteor freak with super bladder control.

He caught the Boss' eye and nodded toward the exit. The boss nodded in return. It was getting late, the night was winding down, the A-listers had all mostly left for the comfort of somebody's bed. He rose and walked himself to the back hall, to the grungy, employees-only toilet with the cracked mirror, and the filthy grout and the acrid odor of urinal cakes. It was so ridiculous, a toilet like this in a place where money fell out of marks' pockets like ... piss out of a drunk. When he was a kid, America had been like a paradise he dreamed about, home of Metallica and Kurt Cobain - of course, Cobain had killed himself, but it wasn't until he'd come over that he'd realized why. Underneath the shiny pretty surface he'd seen in the movies and on t.v. America was full of crumbling, shoddy shit-holes that were themselves full of crumbling, shoddy people. Nobody in those places had a job but everyone had a buck, or a fight, or a life to lose

He had had to have been awfully young and naive not to have predicted that.

He washed and dried his hands, probably a futile effort in this joint but the gesture was important. He opened the door just far enough to feel it hit something solid half-way and hear a muttered, "Goddammit."

He pushed at the door again, and again it was stopped. "Would you hold on a second? You can't be in a hurry to get _out_," the voice said. "You, move back four steps."

"Excuse me?" he asked. The voice sounded like his server's.

"Not you. _You_ can come out now." He opened the door, all the way this time, and there was his server. Standing a foot or so from the door there was also a blonde woman, with eyes fixed forward, who looked vaguely familiar.

"OK, walk into the bathroom," the server said. The blonde woman moved forward, followed by the server, both of them resolutely ignoring him before shutting the door.

Well. That was ... unexpected. And wrong somehow, and while he definitely wasn't the best judge of that, it was still... Something about the way the blonde girl had stared. Emotionless, and that wasn't right, because he felt like he knew her, and that feeling said she was opinionated. And there'd been a lot of color around her, and a big bird, and - a crow. A big, painted crow. She was that girl from the high school - his American scholarship high school. The self-righteous one with the newspaper.

Jesus. What the hell was she doing here? She should be nagging some poor schmuck to clean out the gutters or change the oil in the car, not wandering around the basement of this sewer. Or being pulled into bathrooms by that cow of a waitress. Under other circumstances, seeing that would have made for interesting speculation, but tonight that too felt wrong. Tonight there was something going on he didn't understand at all.

He slouched back against the opposite wall and waited for the two women to come out. It took longer than he expected it would.

Finally the door opened. The server blinked. He smiled. The blonde stared past him at the wall.

"You gotta go again?" the server asked.

"Pretty girl," he responded, nodding. "Where did she come from?"

The server smirked. "From the Boss, that's where."

"Is she his kid?"

"Not hardly."

"So, she's not his girl?"

"She's off limits is what she is. You should get back to work."

He shrugged. "My shift's done." He smiled again. Women seemed to like his smile, even when he didn't tell them to. "Let me come with you. It'll be fun."

"No, it won't. Besides, I think even you would get tired of having to tell her what to do every minute. She can't even pee on her own without someone to tell her to go."

"What happened to her?"

"I guess that's for the Boss to know and you and I to wonder about."

He looked at the girl again. He remembered having to hand-cuff her to keep her from interfering with his plans. She hadn't moved once since he'd started talking to the server. That was no good.

"No," he said. "I think you should _sit_."

The server sat. He squatted down, looked at her eye to eye. "_Stay_," he said. "_Forget_." Her eyes went blank, not unlike the blondes', and it occurred to him that command may have been a bit broad. Then he remembered the bottle without the glass and the way she'd rolled her eyes and shrugged. He could always let her remember later. Or not.

He stood and walked to the other girl. It had been fun, he remembered, showing her what he could do. Showing off, in fact. Girls always liked seeing it, until they realized he could use it just as easily to control them as he did to entertain them. This one though, the one in front of him, she had been the only one to try to stop him from controlling others. The only one who had stopped him.It should make him angry, remembering. Thinking about it had always made him angry before - but when was the last time he really had? When was the last time he'd been angry? When was the last time he'd felt anything except drunk or bored?

He took her arm. "We are going for a walk, pretty girl." He realized he was tugging at her unmoving form and remembered what the server had said about peeing. "You are going to walk with me," he said. She picked up her foot to follow him. He curled his lip in disgust.

He had three ways out at this point: through the club, through the kitchen or through whatever was being built downstairs. The club was out for obvious reasons and there was a security guard stationed at the work site 24 hours. On the other hand there were still a couple of servers left who might be hanging out in the kitchen or by the door, smoking. It was harder to work his mojo on groups but the servers were less likely to be carrying than the guard was, so through the kitchen it was. He steered her through the swinging door, past the stainless steel bench tops and shelving, ignoring a few uncorked bottles of wine, stepping around the crates of produce on the way to the alley door, which sure enough was propped open to permit re-entry. Burnt tobacco met his nostrils, a smell that always reminded him of his mother and interminable waits on rail platforms.

"Jessica?" he guessed as he pushed the door open. He didn't know all their names, but that one seemed common.

"Yeah?"

"I saw, I think, Krista? In the hall by the restroom. She did not look so hot. I think someone should check on her."

"She's not puking is she?"

"Not yet."

"Christ. Should just let her get fired," she said, but then stubbed out the cigarette. She turned and saw the girl behind him, her eyes widening for a split second before he whispered, again, "_Forget_." Her eyes looked merely confused as she walked away. That worked better. Better than the last one, at least.

He turned to the blonde girl. This might be tricky - it wasn't like he could command her to become invisible. "Stay out of sight," he told her. "Keep going until you find help - do not stop until you find someone to help you. Don't mention me to anyone. Okay? OK. _Go_."

Then she was - gone.

How the hell had he done that?

TURPIN

"_... __forty__-__three__interceptions__thrown__ - "_

"_You__keep__saying__that__."_

"_It__deserves__notation__. __Forty__-__three__interceptions__in__a__single__game__. __Nobody__has__thrown__that__many__in__a__game__since__ 1962. __Nobody__. __Not__even__Farve__, __and__he__'__s__thrown__what__, 324 __over__his__career__now__?"_

"_328."_

"_Well__, __give__Hammer__a__couple__of__years__, __he__'__ll__have__him__beat__."_

"_I__think__you__'__re__making__this__a__bigger__deal__than__it__is__."_

"_No__, __that__'__s__the__problem__. __Nobody__is__making__a__big__deal__of__this__. __It__'__s__like__nobody__cares__anymore__. __Not__the__fans__, __not__the__coaching__staff__, __not__the__ownership__. __And__that__'__s__where__it__starts__. __Right__there__: __if__ownership__isn__'__t__willing__to__make__the__changes__that__need__to__be__made__, __we__won__'__t__need__two__years__to__break__Favre__'__s__record__. __There__'__s__no__accountability__anymore__."_

"_You__'__re__talking__like__there__was__accountability__before__."_

"_There__was__! __Before__the__old__man__died__, __something__like__this__would__happen__and__Hammer__'__d__be__benched__. __End__of__story__! __Now__we__just__come__out__of__a__press__conference__and__all__Childress__can__say__is__the__guy__had__a__bad__game__! __Somebody__from__LuthorCorp__needs__to__step__forward__and__say__, '__This__is__kind__of__performance__is__unacceptable__from__the__third__-__highest__paid__quarter__- "_

The passenger door opened opened and Harper slid in, bringing the coffee and a whole lot of wet with him. "Tough time to be a Sharks fan," he said.

"Remind me what the Chiefs' record was finishing 2008? 2 and 14, wasn't it?"

Harper grinned. "That's why you have my sincerest sympathy, kid. I know where you've been. It gets better. We're 6 and 2 so far this season."

"Yeah, that won't last. You get any cream or sugar?"

"Nah, you're better off drinking it black. Put hair on that chest. When was the last time the Sharks even made wildcard?"

"2007."

"Exactly, so don't get snotty. Ah..." Harper sighed. "That's the good stuff."

"Are you serious?"

"You got used to drinking that $3 a cup yuppie crap Turpin, that's your problem."

"You get what you pay for." 

"Quarterbacks too?"

He shook his head. Hammer was a joke, everyone knew it, but he hadn't always been. Everyone had boggled the year he was a drafted, wondering what the hell the Sharks were thinking using up a first-round pick on a QB from Washington State, but he'd had a spectacular rookie season. That'd been the year before the older Luthor died. Hammer's fortunes seemed to go out the window with the late owner, though, and the Sharks' with him.

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I think they're right. It's not like it used to be. The team was better off with Luthor Sr. at the helm."

"No, they're wrong. Nothing was better off with Lionel Luthor in charge, trust me."

"You got something personal against him?"

"You know he grew up in Suicide Slums, right? Just like I did. Little older than me, but people'll repeat some stories 'til they're dead, and there were a lot of stories about Lionel Luthor 'round the neighborhood when I was growing up. Then he makes his first million or so and suddenly the people telling those stories aren't around to talk about him anymore. He did the world a favor killing himself."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Harper'd never said anything about the IAB inquiry, but he had to know about it. Everyone did. It was just not everyone felt the same about it. "So, you think it's a good thing he's dead?" he asked.

Harper glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Let's just say sometimes things work out the way they're supposed to."

"And when they don't?"

Harper glanced at him again, took a sip of his coffee. "That's what we're here for. Speaking of which, are we gonna keep the peace tonight or are we gonna sit here flappin' our gums?"

"Yeah, we should get going." He turned the wiper speed up and threw the car into reverse. It had been a slow night, a few domestics but not much else. Weather like this made it miserable for anyone who had to make their living on the streets. He shifted into first and hit the indicator. They were pulling out.

As he wrote later in his report, the rain was thick and visibility bad. It was also possible the girl had some metahuman capabilities, because, as his partner James Harper would attest, she had not been on the street the second before their squad car came within inches of running into her.

The girl freaked him out. She sat still as a statue in the back of the car, but from her lack of reaction she could have been anywhere: at church, the park, her own living room. Nor did she ask any questions, demand to see her lawyer or blow raspberries at Harper and him, and she'd gotten in the car quietly once Harper told her she had to. She sure as heck wasn't acting the way most people did when they were dragged down the station. Harper dealt with the whole situation as he regularly ran down mute, I.D.-free zombie chicks in the course of his day, and who knew, maybe he had once upon a time, but he, Dan Turpin, on the other hand was officially weirded out.

"They're gonna need to run a tox screen on this one," he said, apropos of nothing.

"What? Oh, on her?" Harper indicated the woman in the back seat. "Probably, but I don't think they're gonna find anything."

"You think she's just crazy?"

Harper hesitated. "Maybe."

"Maybe? Harp, I'm not a doctor, but this girl has issues. She's either high or she's nuts or she's both. I mean, look at her. She's just ... staring."

"Yeah. I guess so," Harper answered.

He stole a glance at Harper and saw the other man looked a little worried, so maybe he was finally starting to freak out a little too.

"I know a guy," Harp continued. "He kinda specializes in head cases like this. If you pull over a minute I can give him a call."

"You can't call him on the way?"

"He likes his privacy."

"Yeah, OK. Let me find a spot." He turned up the next street into a residential area and pulled over. Harper got out and walked over to a car port, out of the rain. His old partner, Mike, would have made the call from the car, but Mike was the whole reason he was rolling with Harper now. He'd trusted Mike because that's what you did on the force, you looked out for each other. Until you didn't. Hell, Harper was probably right not to show him his cards. Harper couldn't know how he was gonna play it.

Harper didn't know he just wanted to do his job and go home.

He looked in the rearview, back at the girl. She still hadn't moved. God, that was weird.

"So, you got a name?" Maybe if he talked it would be a little less creepy in here with Harper gone.

The girl smiled. Her eyes stayed straight forward, but she smiled. "_I__'__m__nobody_," she said. "_Who__are__you__?_"

So, no. Not less creepy if he talked. "I'm, uh, I'm Officer Daniel Turpin, I'm with the 13th precinct, and I'm gonna try to help - "

"_How__public_," she interrupted. "_Like__a__frog_."

Oh boy. "Uh, yeah, I'm a public servant, and me and my partner, Harper - he's out there, see -" he pointed to Harper standing under the car port and the girls' head turned - "he's a public servant too, and we want to help you. To do that, we need to know your name."

"_A__rose__by__any__other__name__would__smell__as__sweet_," she said, still staring at Harper.

Turpin sighed. He hoped Harper got a hold of his _'__guy__'_ soon. "Look," he told her, and suddenly her face swiveled back to look at his. Okay. He shook his head, it was as though she took every word out of his mouth literally. But that would be just... he paused and took a slow breath. "All I want to do is find out where you belong, and hand you off to your people without going through a lot of bullshit, and I'm sure you'd like to avoid that too. So, ma'am, do you know where you live, where your people are at? Who your people are? 'Cuz I'd love to be able to take you to them."

She frowned, which was the most bizarre thing she'd done yet. It made her look almost normal. Did she have to think about that one, he wondered.

"Clark Kent," she said after a few seconds.

"You belong - what did you say?"

"Clark Kent," she repeated.

"Yeah, I heard you..." His weird night had just gotten exponentially weirder. What would top everything off would be if the guy still had the same number, he thought as he scrolled through his contacts. That would really take the cake. He found the listing he was looking for and hit _'__send__'_.

Harper poked his head into the car as the connection began to ring.

"You get an I.D.?" he asked.

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

"You know how you said sometimes things work out the way they're supposed to? Well, this might be one of those times." 

"You don't say."

Dan held up his hand as voicemail kicked in. _"__You__'__ve__reached__Clark__Kent__, __Daily__Planet__and__Kent__'__s__Organic__Produce__. __Please__leave__a__message__. __Thanks__."_


	2. Chapter 2

J'onn was at the Watchtower before his voicemail even picked up.

"I got a call from a friend of mine on the force," he said by way of explanation. "By the time I got to the station house you'd already been and gone. How is she?"

"She's ... not good. She's over there."

J'onn gave him a concerned look, squeezing his shoulder. "I suggest getting to the bathroom. Ms. Mercer does not strike me as the type of woman who enjoys scraping vomit out of her keyboards."

It was only as J'onn said this that Clark recognized the twisted, heavy feeling in his gut.

"You know, I don't fe- "

"Go!"

He went, speeding to the toilet, lifting the seat and then staring at it in confusion. He wasn't sure how this was supposed to work; the few times before when it had happened it had just ... happened. He was wondering if he was supposed to stick his finger down his throat, if that would help, when, blessedly, his belly convulsed and last night's General Tsao's chicken greeted the world again. And again. And again. He was on his knees pushing up bitter acid and staring into the bowl when he felt J'onn's hand on his shoulder again.

"Kal-El, this is not a problem you need to bear alone."

"That's why I called you," he said. Maybe if he pushed himself up against the toilet he'd be able to stand, he thought. Gripping the sides, he bent one shaky leg forward, then the other. "I tried calling Oliver but he's not picking up. I don't know what to do. She's just sitting there. Have you ever seen her just sit? Ever?"

"Has she been responsive at all? Made any kind of sign that she recognizes you?"

He straightened his legs and waist but found himself clutching the vanity as soon as he was upright. He couldn't remember feeling this unstable unless there was kryptonite around. He scanned J'onn but found none, which was both a relief and a worry. What was happening to him? "No," he answered. "She just sits." Maybe he should sit too. He bent his legs and landed, hard, on the toilet seat. Luckily his powers seemed to be neutralized, because the toilet held. "I need you to look at her mind. Find out what happened to her, why she's like this, who did this - "

For no reason, his stomach flopped again and J'onn's hand was pushing his head between his knees.

"I'll do what I can," J'onn answered. "It may not be easy. If she has put on the Helmet of Fate, it may not be possible to learn what happened. Her mind may be shattered."

"No!" He found himself standing again. Clutching his stomach and swaying a little from the loss of blood to his head, but standing. "She's going to be okay."

J'onn gave him a sympathetic look that for some reason pissed him off. "Kal-El, sit." The other man pushed down on his shoulder and Clark felt his butt hit the seat again. "Believe me when I say I share your grief at that idea. I will learn what I can, but what I will learn, will probably not be what I want to learn."

Clark let that sink in for a moment. He knew that. What he wanted and what happened were almost always two different things, and no more so than in the last few months with Chloe missing. That didn't mean he had to like it. "You know about Chloe's mom," he said at last.

"I know she is not well." The telepath looked uncomfortable, although why he would Clark couldn't imagine.

"Chloe's greatest fear was that she would end up crazy like her mother," Clark told him. "We can't let that happen. There has to be some kind of antidote, or treatment, or - "

"Then you should call Emil. If there's an organic component to this he would be the man to find it, and if she has been affected by 'magic' then we should also call Ms. Mercer; she'll be able to get in touch with Zatanna."

Clark nodded and stood. "She'll probably have some idea where Oliver is too." Oliver should be here, to see her. She was in danger of losing her mind because of him.

"You should talk to her cousin, as well."

"Lois?"

"Is her other cousin in town?"

"I doubt it, but Lois just got back from India herself last night. She's probably asleep."

"From the few times I've met her, I'd think she'd be more upset if you didn't wake her."

"Yeah, you're right." Clark just had no idea what he would tell her.

"Kal-El?"

"Hm?"

"I can't help but notice you're still here."

"I'm trying to think."

J'onn raised a brow.

"I can't bring Lois here, but I'm not sure where to bring Chloe. And Lois is going to want to take her to the hospital."

"I'll have Emil meet us there."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

J'onn sighed. "Have you considered that Lois might be in a better position to help if she understood the nature of the problem?"

Clark frowned. J'onn could - _did_ - know what he was thinking, but he was seldom so direct. Generally the telepath considered commenting on the unspoken thoughts of others rude. "We don't know the nature of the problem. I don't want to worry her when we don't have any answers. Emil should take a look at her first, and then I've got to find a place for her to stay."

"I'm sure Oliver won't mind if you take her to the Clocktower."

He considered. In a way it was tempting: it would be a way of establishing Oliver's responsibility for what had happened. It would also be a way for Oliver to take over her care, which, with the number of commitments the other man had, Clark did not see ending well. "I'd hate for Oliver to come home to that kind of surprise."

"Then bring her to the farm. She'll be close to both you and Lois that way."

That made sense, Clark thought. The farm was private, and even if someone should come by people in Smallville had gotten used to minding their own business. He'd have to run to D.C., let his mother know, but the next recess wasn't for a while and if worse came to worse she could stay with Perry.

"That's a good idea," he said.

Clark drove back to Metropolis in the morning. He'd need the truck for Lois on the return trip, and it gave him time to think. He'd tucked Chloe into bed before leaving and told her to sleep, after which she'd immediately closed her eyes and began drawing the deep, even breaths of the unconscious. She'd done everything he told her to do like that, immediately and without hesitation. They were the only things she did do, and so far no one could tell him why.

Emil had drawn some blood and scheduled an MRI, but had found no external physical injury. After a quick scan himself, Clark had been able to assure him there were no foreign objects embedded in her, and in return Emil had told him they would have to wait until the labs on her blood came back and the MRI could be performed. J'onn's examination had been just as unenlightening.

"I've never sensed anything like this before," he'd said.

"Like what?"

"Since I've never encountered it before I'm not sure how to describe it. It's like trying to find something in a room that's already been tossed, but I'm not sure if the room _was_ tossed or if it _did_ toss."

"I don't follow you."

"Did you see _Toy__Story__ 3_?"

"Did you?"

"Best movie of the summer, and proof that sequels don't have to stink," J'onn stopped. Maybe he'd sensed the overwhelming disbelief Clark was experiencing. "Well, you know the toys can walk and talk," he'd continued, "but when people enter the room they're in they have to pretend to be inanimate? In _Toy__Story__ 3,_ the toys are at a nursery school where the children are untidy and so when the humans enter the room they have to quickly make a mess of themselves in order not to draw suspicion."

"So, you're saying that Chloe's mind is like a daycare full of toys that have left _themselves_ lying around?"

"Maybe. I don't know. When I look into her mind it feels as if there's something happening, in the periphery, but when I look to see what it is, it stops."

"Well, how do you get things to stay where they're supposed to be?"

"I don't know Kal-El. Like I said earlier, it's possible someone else may have already tried."

"Another telepath?"

The detective shrugged. "Possibly. She may on some unconscious level be defending herself. Or she could be reacting to the stress of her captivity, or maybe this is just what the Helmet does to people it doesn't it is, at this point I'd want to hear what Emil and Zatanna have to say before I continue poking around in there. I don't want to make things worse."

Zatanna, however, was in London at some kind of "yoga retreat" according to Tess, and A.C. was in the Gulf and refused to leave to go get her, so analysis of a possible curse would have to wait until she returned.

"What about Bart?" he'd asked.

"_He__'__s __with__ Oliver_," she'd answered.

"Well where's Oliver? He needs to know about this too."

"_He__'__s __out __of__ town__._"

"Out of town _where_?"

"_I__'__m __sorry__. __I__ don__'__t__ think __it __would __be __a__ good __idea __to __tell__ you __that__ right __now__._"

"Tess, Chloe's back! She's returned, and she needs help! She needs Oliver."

"_I __understand __that__, __and__ I __have __contacted __him__, __and__ I __am __sure __he __wouldn__'__t __mind __you__ knowing__ where__ he __is__. __The __good __people __at__ Verizon__ Wireless__ are __another __matter__._"

He'd hung up then. She'd been harping about his phone constantly in the last month. She wanted him to use only secure lines, ones that she'd given him, but after everything she'd done he'd rather trust his cellular service provider. She'd forced him into battle with Doomsday and helped Zod build a couple of skyscrapers designed to help him take over the planet. All Verizon had done was lock him into a two-year contract.

Plus by that point he'd exited from 83 unto I-70. He had half an hour to plan out what he was going to say to Lois. He'd have to get her out of there discreetly. Lois hadn't made much of a secret about her search for Chloe and while there weren't many people left at the _Planet_ who remembered her, he didn't need word getting around. Better they kept placing bets on what Lois' next theory would be ("Lex Luthor Was Behind It Despite Being Dead" was popular, but there were also several markers on "Vengeful Meteor Freak" and "Kidnapped by Aliens and/or Intergang"). But once they were out of the basement - then what? He couldn't just blurt out: "Lois, Chloe's back and I didn't tell you immediately because I didn't want to wake you up"? He had a two-hour drive to the farm with her. Maybe he could wait until they'd gotten back... but then he'd have to find some way to justify the trip there. Straightforward was probably best.

Of course, a lot would depend on the mood she was in. A lot. He should just take his cue from her. If she'd learned anything new about the "tagged" monuments, she'd be positive and energetic, but eager to work and not necessarily receptive to playing hookey. If her investigation hadn't uncovered anything she'd likely be ... not as positive, but possibly willing to bail before Stern called her to his office to bitch about her expenses.

He crossed his fingers and hoped her trip had been a bust.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: there's a wee bit of cursing in this chapter.

He spent twenty minutes circling the Planet, looking for a empty spot so he wouldn't have to park in the LuthorCorp ramp, before giving up and calling Lois.

"_Clark__? __A __little __late__, __aren__'__t__ you__? __Do __you__ always __get__ this__ sloppy __when __I__'__m__ gone__? __Where __are__ you__, __anyway__?" _Suddenly, she gave a little gasp. _"__Do __you __have__ ... __something__ ... __going __on__?"_

He exhaled with relief. Sometimes, Lois got it. "I do," he answered, "and I need to talk to you about it. Can you be outside the main entrance in five minutes?"

"_Of __course__! __Of__ course __I __can__. __Should__ I __wear__ a__ scarf__?"_

"A scarf?" Lois never asked him for clothing advice.

"_Yeah__, __you __know__, __to__ - __you __know__ what__? __Don__'__t__ sweat __it__. __I__'__ll__ be __there__. __Five __minutes__."_

"Good. If I'm a little late it's 'cuz of traffic."

He'd thought he'd have to drive a few more times around the block before she appeared, but she must have developed super-speed while she was in India, because she was right there on his next turn, sunglasses on, her hair tucked under a giant babushka. She was peering around furtively, so furtively he had to honk. Twice. She jumped, then frowned before striding over and yanking the door open.

"What's with the truck?"

"You need to come back to the farm with me."

She peeled off the sunglasses and gave him an incredulous look. "Because whatever you need to tell me, you need to tell me at the farm?"

"I have a feeling you won't believe me until we get to the farm."

She considered that a moment while the cars behind him honked. Apparently it was a satisfactory explanation, because she climbed up the running board and into the cab. "Clark, whatever you have to tell me, whatever it is, I'll believe you. I trust you, and I'd like to think you're able to trust me."

"OK." This was good start, he thought. This was amazingly good. This was going to be so much easier than he'd been expecting. He pulled forward and merged. "Chloe's alive."

"What?"

"Chloe's alive, Lois. They found her. She's at the farm, that's why - "

"THIS is what you have to tell me? THIS is why I dropped the biggest story of the year, an international mystery of global proportions? For your sick joke? Did Lombard put you up to this?"

"No, no one did! This is the truth - Chloe's at the farm - "

Her fist came up and he had to swerve to the left to avoid it, taking the wheel and the truck with him into oncoming traffic. Seat-beltless, she tumbled into his side, squeaking as a mini-van fish-tailed past them and then grabbing the wheel.

"You're going to get me killed!" she said as they both fought to turn the wheel to the right. Their combined efforts unfortunately caused the truck to over-correct, pushing the motorcycle on their right on to the side-walk. Gently, Clark peeled her fingers from the wheel as he straightened out the truck. "Ow!"

"Get your seat-belt on."

She massaged her fingers instead. "Seriously, who the hell taught you how to drive?"

They were back in their own lane again, so he took the time to glare at her.

"My dad did. Who taught you it was cool to beat up the driver?"

"Who taught you to tell me my cousin was sitting in your kitchen while you were driving?"

"You! You told me you trusted me!"

"That was when I thought - " She paused, pulling her seat-belt on at last.

"That was when you thought what?"

"That was when I thought you had something trust-worthy to say!"

"So you don't believe me?"

"I - " she began, then sort of shriveled like an old balloon. "Clark, the last and only real lead I've had was that somehow, for some reason, some asshole thought she'd make a good substitute for a billionaire as a hostage, and I think we can both agree that there is a very, very tiny pool of people in this world who would kidnap Oliver Queen to get at Chloe Sullivan. Just one person, in fact, and Lex doesn't let people wander off. You saw that place in Montana."

"So you still think Lex is alive?"

"When you've eliminated the impossible, Watson, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

He stole another glance at her. She'd added an angry certainty to her shriveled posture. It made her look very young somehow. "Lois, I know this is hard, when the police called me I didn't believe it either, but - "

"And why would the police call you? You're not family."

"You were 8,000 miles away, and Turpin said she asked for me."

"Turpin?"

"Dan Turpin. He's a beat cop; I worked as his partner when I went undercover a few years back."

"Alright. We'll see if your story checks out," she said, flourishing her phone. "Yes, this is Lois Lane, _Daily __Planet_. I would like to speak to Officer Dan Turpin." She paused while a tinny male voice told her Dan Turpin was on pat- "... You can't transfer me?" The tinny voice told her _no__, __but__ he__ could __take __a __message __or __transfer __her __to_- "Well, then I would like to speak to Detective Ford. It's regarding a missing persons' case." _Please __hold_, the tinny voice told her. " ... If I must," she said. She sat silently for a moment, alternating her raised eyebrows at him and the passing scenery. Her look, though inadvertent, made him remember it was rude to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, Lois' voice at least had a lot more carrying power than the engine's pistons. "Detective Ford - yeah. Lois Lane here. I - that's why I'm call - When? ... Why did no one contact me? ... Well they have phones now in India you know. ... What do you mean, incoherent? Just because she used a few words of three syllables or more - . ... Was she concussed? What - Fine. ... No. ... Yes. ... Oh, you'll be hearing from me," she said, ending the call. "One day they're going to make a cell phone you can slam down," she muttered. "That was the officer in charge of Chloe's case," she told Clark.

"What did he say?"

"That she was found wandering around Suicide Slum. They originally thought she was high because of the way she was babbling, but when she'd mentioned your name they contacted you." Her voice cracked a little at the end and Clark wondered if she was going to cry. Lois never cried. Well, almost never. He wondered what he should do if she did. They were still on I-70, so he couldn't pull over, but he didn't want to just keep driving while Lois sobbed. Maybe he could take an early exit, use the county roads to get back home? But that would take longer. Beside him, Lois drew a deep breath.

"He said she seemed 'mentally unstable'," she continued, "whatever THAT means, and that they'd recommended a psychiatric evaluation to you."

"That's true. He did."

She looked out the window for a moment before asking, "So what did the psychiatrist have to say?"

_He__'__d __said __that__ Chloe__'__s __mental __state __reminded __him__ of __a__Pixar __movie_ - _Not_something he could tell Lois. "Uh, he said she was showing signs of physical exhaustion and some, uh, memory problems, and she needs time to rest." That was good, he thought, and mostly the truth.

"Why? So she can stumble around with her memory in pieces, wondering all the time if she's going crazy? No, trust me. Not a good idea, Smallville. I'll talk to her, we'll make an appointment tomorrow. I know a ... guy. A source. He can recommend someone."

Now _there_ was an idea that was no good at all. Lois was going to fight him tooth and nail on this one, but there was no way a standard-issue therapist could be allowed to talk to Chloe.

"Dr. Hamilton knows what he's doing; when he thinks Chloe's stable enough he'll begin therapy."

"Sorry, but I'm not about to let some old country doctor swing his pocket watch in front of Chloe's face. Ten to one he's taken money from the Luthors at some point."

_Where__ on __earth __had __she__ gotten __the __idea__ ... ?_ "He's based in Metropolis, and he works for Oliver."

"Oh."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence." He bristled. He kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Lois' shaky intake.

"I do trust you, Clark. More than anyone."

He bit back the retort that sprang to mind. Lois had had no one but herself to rely on for so long. She probably did trust him more than anyone, but that was probably only as far as she could throw him. And the truth was, as Chloe's family she had far more legal standing to make decisions regarding Chloe's care than he did, especially since Chloe's father wouldn't arrive from Zambia for another three days.

"He's scheduled an MRI at MetGen for the day after tomorrow, and he's ordered some labs on her blood work. He says we should have results back by the end of the wee. He's coming by the farm tomorrow if you want to talk to him," he said.

"I do."

"I thought you might."

"I take it Oliver's at the farm now too?" asked Lois after a moment.

"He's been out of town for a week, some hush-hush deal he's working on."

"Well. That happens. So who is looking after her right now? Did your mom fly back?"

"No, I haven't told her yet."

"So, who is there? Oh my God, Clark. Please don't tell me you left her there alone."

"She's fine! She's sleeping." This was the truth; her heart beat had been steady and slow ever since he left. Nor was she in any danger; no one besides J'onn and Emil knew she was there.

"You - !" when she didn't finish that statement, he glanced her way. Her face was stiff and resolute.

"Lois?"

"I trust you," she answered through teeth that barely separated. "I trust you to punch the gas and get us to the farm as fast as _humanly_ possible. I trust you that you will do that. Got it?"

He did.


	4. Chapter 4

The light was failing when they turned into the drive, the dark flowing over and smothering the day. The yellow house sat so still in the twilight Clark scanned it to make sure Chloe was still there, despite the steady rhythm of her heartbeat in his ears.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Lois asked.

"Just checking the windows," he said. He climbed out of the truck and on to the porch. Lois followed, darting ahead of him as soon as he'd unlocked the door, throwing on the lights and running into the living room.

"Chloe? Baby cuz? Where - "

"She's upstairs in the bedroom," he told her. "She's asleep. I told her to rest."

Lois dashed over to the stairs and he nearly had to speed to catch her before she could run up.

"Um, why are you standing in my way?" she asked.

"There are some other things you need to know," he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Things you couldn't tell me before?"

"I didn't want to mention it earlier because it seemed like a bigger conversation than you have in the car, but ... " He didn't know what to say without making it sound horrible. "She doesn't respond well to questions. She starts babbling stuff when they're asked, that's the reason the cops called her incoherent."

For a second Lois' brows lowered and he thought she looked almost disappointed. Then they rose again. "I wasn't going to give her the third degree; unlike some, I can appreciate how traumatized she must be," she told him tartly.

"One other thing." He really, really didn't know how to say this. "She doesn't have much initiative. She only does things when she's told to do them. Eating, sleeping - you have to tell her to do it. Otherwise, she just doesn't."

Lois' brows fell again, knitting together in an agreement of confusion and irritation. "I don't understand. What are you saying? Has she been brain-washed?"

"We don't know. She just doesn't do things. She _can_ do them. She made coffee for my friend J'onn - you know, the cop? - but he had to tell her every little thing to do to make it."

Lois sank to the steps, her face very still.

"Did she ever tell you what happened to her mother?" she asked.

Clark felt his own face becoming still, in his case with caution. Yes, he knew what had happened to Chloe's mother. The question was whether Lois did. Chloe had never mentioned her mother's kidnapping in the years since it had occurred, and whether that was for Moira's safety or her own peace, he didn't know. He also didn't know if she'd ever mentioned it to Lois, or told her why Lex had done it or how it was that she had found it out. It would be so much easier if Lois knew ... but it wasn't his secret to tell. "She told me her mother was mentally ill," he said. /Great extension, and completely reasonable/

"Crazy. Yeah. Crazy Aunt Moira. That's what the General used to call her - not that he knew, he just thought she was a flake, that she'd run off to go sit in New Mexico waiting for UFOs to land or something. Turns out she was actually in a mental hospital. Chloe didn't even know until her senior year."

He could guess what she was thinking. It was the same thing he had thought when he'd first realized something was wrong. "Dr. Hamilton seems pretty sure whatever's wrong with her isn't genetic." 

"How would he know? It's not as if he could do a history and you said the test results hadn't come back yet."

"He's treated Chloe for other, uh, issues in the past." At least, he assumed Emil had. It wasn't as if Oliver had signed her up to Queen Industries' group health plan. Had he?

"What other issues?"

"It's not like he could tell me about them."

"No. You're right," she said. "Does she - " she reached out her hand, then pulled it suddenly back. "Does she know people? Will she know me?"

"I don't know. She hasn't seen many people she knows yet."

"Did she know you?"

He hesitated. "No."

"But you said she asked for you when the police found her."

"She did, but I don't know why." She was stalling, he realized. Once she went up there, once she woke Chloe, Lois would see how bad it was, and she didn't want to. "You know, we don't have to wake her up right now. We could wait until morning. It might be best for everyone."

"No." She sat up and squared her shoulders. "She's been missing for four months. I want to see her and talk to her."

"Okay." Clark led her up the stairs to his old room, where he had put Chloe to bed, and where Chloe still lay, in exactly the position he had left her. He bent over her little form and whispered, "Chloe, wake up."

Chloe's eyes popped open. From their blurry state it looked as if her brain was taking a minute to follow. He could see the instant it did, a flash of intelligence followed by the bright, blank stare that was now her default expression. Lois had sat down on the bed and was leaning so far over her she was about to fall on top of her, but Chloe didn't look at her. She wouldn't unless she was told to.

"Chloe, Lois is here. Say hello."

Chloe stared at the ceiling. "Hello," she said.

Lois looked crushed.

"Chloe? Do you know - "

"Don't ask her," Clark said. "If you want her to talk, tell her to talk to you."

"Oh, that's compassionate. Chloe, do you know who I am?"

"_She__dealt__her__pretty__words__like__Blades__—" _Chloe answered, "_How__glittering__they__shone__— __And__every__One__unbared__a__Nerve__... __Or__wantoned__with__a__Bone__—"_

Lois stared at him in shock. "What was that?"

"I told you not to ask her any questions."

"Not the point, Smallville. What did she just say?"

"I don't know! It all sounds random to me, but J'onn thought she might have been reciting a poem to him. When he first asked her to make him the coffee she said something about '_coffee__is__the__drink__of__the__friends__of__God_' and '_it__turns__the__color__of__ink__'_. He said he thought he recognized it."

"Are you serious?"

"Just don't ask her any more questions," he said, and her expression changed from horrified to resolute.

"Chloe," she said. "Look at me."

Chloe twisted her face down to meet Lois'.

"Chloe, it's me. Lois. Your cousin. Clark is here too," she said and grabbed Clark's hand. "We are going to get you better, and we are going to get the sons of bitches who did this to you, so don't worry about that. Aren't we?" she asked, looking at him, her eyes determined and fierce. She was squeezing his hand so tightly he had to release his grip on hers, so she didn't hurt herself, but he lifted his hand to her shoulder to compensate.

"Lois is right, Chloe. We're going to get you better."

Chloe continued to stare at her cousin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning:** There is a Barn Mope in this chapter.

**Author's Note:** I did not write _Ozymandias_ - Percy Bysshe Shelley did.

Lois had bundled Chloe up the stairs right after dinner to shower her, and he had gone to the barn. It seemed fitting to give them privacy. A semblance of privacy, at least. He could still hear them if he didn't deliberately concentrate on something else, the beat of Chloe's heart and Lois' forced positivity, telling Chloe to lift her arms, her feet, to move out of the stream of water and then back under it.

Her instructions left a blank desperation in his mind. He'd felt this way before, when his mother had lost the baby, when Brainiac had attacked Lana. When there was nothing to be done. He didn't remember feeling this nauseous feeling before - that was new. He remembered waking up in the night, a few days after his dad had died, and hearing his mother retching. He wondered if she had felt this helpless and alone.

After an hour or so of listening to owls hunting and the traffic on the county road he went back in. Lois was curled up with Chloe in the master bedroom. Chloe's eyes were shut in obedient sleep, but Lois' were fixed on the door. Waiting for him.

"How is she?" he asked, walking in.

"She's clean. She's not bruised anywhere, and I didn't see any needle marks, either."

"That's good." Emil had of course checked for the same things, but explaining that would have been futile. Lois would undeniably want to see for herself.

After that, Clark couldn't think of anything else to say. From the look of her, it seemed Lois thought he should. Her eyes stayed glued on him, her face tight with the outburst she was repressing.

"If you're comfortable in here with her I can sleep in my old room," he said. "Or I can take the couch. It's up to you."

The offer earned him a withering glare. "Clark, what do you plan to do about this?"

"I told you. We're going to take her in for the MRI tomor-"

"I meant about Lex! You know, the big, bad, bald guy who kidnapped my cousin?"

Clark wasn't sure he liked the focus of Lois' newest obsession. If Lex was out there somewhere still stewing in his hate, he didn't want Lois anywhere near him. "Don't you think that's a big leap? Granted, it's weird that anyone would want to take Ch- "

Lois flopped back on the mattress, shaking her head. "We've covered this, remember? Besides a pack of wandering gypsies, who else could it be?"

There were so many different possible answers to that, and none of which he could say out loud. So instead he went for the old stand-by.

"It's Smallville. You know how many times Lana was attacked."

"A) Chloe was kidnapped in Metropolis, and B) that was Lana. Girl had a freak magnet embedded in her."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, except Lana was a unique case."

"Other people have been attacked. Chloe's been attacked. Some psycho sheriff's deputy tried to bury her alive once."

"What?"

"And then there was that Gaines jerk, and that bookie Mikhail, and Gabriel Duncan and you remember Jimmy and Chloe's wedding."

Lois sat up, her face scrunched. "You don't think that thing came back, do you?"

"No," he said quickly. Geez, maybe it had been better to let her think it was Lex. "No, that thing wouldn't have just taken her. It would have smashed a couple of buildings in the process."

She nodded. "Who were all those other people you were talking about?"

"Just guys Chloe managed to learn too much about."

"Do you think one of them could one of them taken her?"

"No," he reassured her. "They're all dead."

"So we're back to Lex then," she said as if it were obvious.

Clark groaned inside. She was obviously not going to give up. Well, if he couldn't divert her, maybe he could humor her. "Listen," he said. "I'll talk to Mom, see if she has any pull at the F.B.I. Maybe she can find out if they know Lex's status."

She rolled her eyes and flopped back on to the bed. "You do that. Meanwhile - "

She broke off as, beside her, Chloe whimpered in her sleep.

"Chlo?" Lois asked.

Clark dropped to a crouch by the side of the bed and listened. Chloe's heart had sped up, her breathing was choppier, and her eyes were twitching under her lids. "I think she's dreaming," he said.

"Yes, I got that - "

"She hasn't done anything like this yet. Usually she just lies there. I don't think she's dreamt before now."

"So this is a good thing?"

"Maybe. We'll have to ask the doctor."

"I think we should wake her." She lifted her hand to Chloe's shoulder and began gently shaking. "Chloe baby. Wake - "

Clark grabbed her wrist. "I don't think we should. Dreams help us process our experiences." He had read that years ago, while trying to figure out why the new girl next door was able to barge in on his dreams. Would there be any way he could get into Chloe's, he wondered. There was that contraption of Tess'. Or J'onn. He'd be able to tell what Chloe was dreaming. Tomorrow he should have Lois spend the night at the Talon and -

"Yeah, well, that didn't sound as if she was processing a walk in the park," Lois argued pointedly.

"It doesn't matter if what she's processing is good or bad, I don't think. We need to dream in order to form long-term memories. Maybe by dreaming her brain's finding a way to make memories of what happened to her. It could be what she needs to do in order to heal."

"Or it could be she'll wake up the next morning feeling crazy and paranoid about whatever she dreamt about the night before."

"I would prefer that to having to tell her to stop walking before she trips over the couch."

Lois opened her mouth, paused for a second, then shut it. Whatever energy she had planned to put into her argument went instead into curling up behind Chloe again, wrapping her arms over her cousin's now occasionally fluttering body and nestling her face into the back of the other woman's neck. The discussion was apparently over - and he had even gotten the last word. Technically. Somehow it still managed to feel as though Lois had won. He watched her snuggling in, watched her and Chloe lying there together, until Lois said, "Goodnight, Clark." Then he left for the bed in his old room where he lay awake, waiting for day.

He didn't hear the change in her breathing, the rustle of sheets or the creak of floor boards. There was nothing to alert him she was moving - she was just there, swaying a little beside the bed, her eyes wide and dark.

"Chloe?" He sprang up, grabbing her arms and feeling the tiny tremors running up and down her. "What - " _No__. __Questions __were __no __good__._ "Tell me what happened," he said instead.

"Wuh - " she began, then coughed, gasped, swallowed. The tremors turned to trembling and, without being told, she sat, pulling at the covers. Lois had dressed her in one of his mom's old flannel nightgowns, but it apparently wasn't enough; she was shivering hard enough that he wondered if she must have taken a detour through what used to be the back forty before apparating into his bedroom. Her feet he understood to be far too cold, and her teeth had begun to chatter. He took the blankets from her hands and pulled them over her, tucking them around her. Squinting slightly, he released a diffuse burst of heat from his eyes, enough to warm her without setting the sheets on fire. He felt her body relax as the warmth surrounded her, but her face remained grave.

"It's Lois," she said.

"Lois... woke you up," he theorized, choosing his words carefully.

"We have to protect her." Her fingers grabbed at his t-shirt, clutching handfuls of it as if to emphasize the non sequitur. "Lois and Ollie and your mom and ... " she trailed off, her eyes wandering past his face, up to the ceiling. "He'll find it soon. We have to stop him."

"Stop who?" he asked and then kicked himself mentally, hard, as he watched her eyes slowly lose their focus. _Shit__._ "Chloe, don't space out on me," he said, louder than he wanted to. "Tell me who we have to stop. Who do we have to stop?" he asked, and kicked himself again. _Shit__! __What__am __I __doing__? __Exactly__ what __I __told__ Lois__ not __to__, __repeatedly__, __that__'__s__ what __I__'__m__ doing__._

Chloe ignored his mental tribulation and smiled broadly at the ceiling. "_And __on __the __pedestal __these __words __appear__," _she answered, _"'__My __name__ is __Ozymandias__, __king __of __kings__: __Look __on __my __works__, __ye __Mighty__, __and __despair__!' __Nothing __beside __remains__. __Round __the __decay __of __that __colossal __wreck__, __boundless __and __bare __the __lone__ and __level __sands__ stretch __far __away__."_

If there was anything more, she didn't recite it.

Clark closed his eyes and willed his stomach back into its proper place.

"Go to sleep, Chloe," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Oliver got his first real sleep in three days on the flight back to Metropolis, a whole hour and a half of it. He slept soundly, which was unusual for him these days, woke as the plane landed, turned his cell phone on and immediately regretted it. He'd been deep undercover for a week and in just the last two days Clark had called him nine times and Lois thirteen. Most of them were of the "Call me!" variety, although Lois had added a few colorful metaphors to her last few messages. The last message was from Mercy, who despite having access to other methods of communication, had also apparently called him right before landing.

"_The__honor__of__your__presence__is__requested_," she'd said. "_Now__._"

He stumbled a little walking into the Watchtower, possibly due to tiredness or possibly due to one of the many chunks of concrete littering the floor. "I'm okay," he called out, mostly to Mercy, who was typing relentlessly across the room from him, but also to any other possibly invisible team member who would have to have also been called in for what was surely an emergency meeting, so important it required the presence of as many crime-fighters as possible, because why else would she demand his attendance right off the fucking plane?

"You need to call Clark," Mercy answered.

"Really? That's it? No how's your week been, how'd the mission go?" He sank down onto the couch.

She picked up her cell phone and dialed.

"I'm glad you asked," he continued, "It was, in fact, a pretty crap week. You'd never guess it, but turns out Bludhaven's pretty cold this time of year. And I think there was a pack of wild dogs living in that safehouse before we got there. At least it smelled as if there'd been. You couldn't have just texted me to call Clark?"

"It's Phantom," she said into the phone. "He's here."

"'Phantom'? Where did that come from?"

She looked at him for the first time since he arrived and smiled. "From Bart," she said, tapping the clear plastic orthosis she wore over the grafts on her face. "Phantom of the Watchtower."

Oliver gaped. "He _said_ that?" One day he was going to teach that kid how to listen when he was told to shut up.

"It's fine," she said. "It's funny. It's a joke."

"No, no way - " He blinked against the sudden wind that hit his face. Opening his eyes, he saw - "Clark." _You__'__re__looking__particularly__constipated__this__afternoon__._

"Where have you been?" Clark demanded.

Mercy, still tapping furiously at her keyboard, ignored Clark as smoothly as she'd ignored him. Maybe a little too smoothly. There was an awful lot of hyper-efficiency from that direction whenever Clark appeared. "Is there some new no-greetings-allowed security protocol you instituted while I was gone?" he asked her.

"You've been gone five days - " Clark began

"Eight," Mercy corrected him. 

"Eight days now," Clark continued, "and you haven't made contact once."

"I made contact with Mercy," he answered.

"That's true," she affirmed.

Clark turned to her. "So when you made contact with him, did you even bother to - "

"Clark", she said sharply, lifting her hands away from keyboard and coming out from behind the podium. "Limiting contact and communication even on secure channels during a mission isn't something I just made up; it's very standard procedure for this type of operation. It's meant to keep both the organization and the operator safe. We can't afford to get sloppy, and I think Chloe would be the first person to agree."

Clark's face turned thunderous and Oliver felt himself reaching for the lead-lined pouch in his breast-pocket. He was going to have to find a handier place to put that.

"Look," he said, dropping his hand when Clark did, in fact, look at him. "I get that you're mad we kept you out of the loop. We'll make it an agenda item for the next meeting. Meanwhile," he said, standing, "I'm gonna take a shower and then collapse. I'd ask you to join me so we could continue this discussion, but that would be a little weird."

"You don't have time for that," Clark told him. "Chloe's back."

"She's ... what?" He realized he was sitting again.

"Chloe's back. She got picked up in Suicide Slums four days ago by a patrol car."

"Oh." He should feel happy, he thought. He should be overcome by joy and excitement right now, but he wasn't. Instead he felt bewildered and a little removed, as if he were viewing the scene before him through a monitor. "Did you know this?" he said, looking at Tess.

She nodded.

He sat a moment, trying to digest that. For some reason though the knowledge didn't want to take. "Alright. I guess we have another item to add to the agenda," he said. "Where is she?" he asked Clark.

"At the farm. Lois is with her," he added quickly.

"OK." He tried to imagine Chloe waiting for him eagerly in the Kent kitchen, and couldn't.

"Do you have a car here?" Clark asked him.

"Why would we take a car? We'll be sitting three hours in rush hour traffic."

"Lois is with her," Clark repeated.

"Yeah, you mentioned that. I guess that means you guys still aren't so much with the sharing."

Clark frowned, but before he could reply Mercy interrupted. "The car's a good idea," she said, returning to her keyboard. "Clark can drive, and you can use the time to get some rest. You look like hell."

She should talk, Oliver thought, and grabbed his keys.

It was past nightfall by the time they pulled into the drive, and the Kent house looked like a golden mirage in a world of darkness. He'd never told Clark, but half of why he'd supported Martha's campaigns was to give himself an excuse to hang out at the house with her, having her gently scold him about the latest headline she'd seen with his name in it, or telling him to get out of her way, she had to get the cookies out of the oven. It would have been nice if she were here now, he thought. After what Clark had told him during the ride out, the numb, detached feeling he'd first felt in the Watchtower had grown and overtaken him; it was hard to believe any of what he saw: the Mercedes or the pokey commuters or the billboards along the freeway, as real. If Martha were here, he thought, he could believe it, although the observer inside him couldn't say why.

But it wasn't Martha waiting for them on the porch. It was Lois, doing her best to look cheerful and unworried. Her hug nearly knocked him over, which alarmed him in a vague way. Lois had never been cuddly.

"Hey, Lois," he said, swallowing.

She pulled back, frowning. "About time you got here," she said, and smacked his arm. "You could have called."

"I was in a dead zone most of the week."

"Well, if you have any visions of the future and decide to shoot a politician, you let us know first," she said. Oliver shot an incredulous glance at Clark, who was busy staring through the kitchen curtains. "What did Clark tell you?" Lois continued.

"He said she's in some kind of semi-catatonic state. She won't do anything unless she's told and she babbles when she's asked questions."

"That's it in a nutshell," she said. "And they can't tell us what's wrong with her. We took her in for an MRI and supposedly the results were inconclusive."

"She has some odd patterns of neural activity," Clark said. "She has a very low rate of neural firing in her dorsolateral prefrontal cortex most of the time. When she's asked questions, it goes up. Not to normal levels, but up."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"We don't know," Lois answered grumpily. "All your Dr. Hamilton would say was that it was extremely unusual. I think we need to call in a specialist."

"Dr. Hamilton doesn't think that's necessary," Clark interjected pointedly. "He thinks rest should do the trick. She's already shown some signs of improvement."

"So you say," she responded.

"What does 'some' improvement mean?" Oliver asked quickly. If Emil didn't want anyone called in it could mean a lot of things, but most probably that whatever ailed Chloe would draw too much attention to her, or to the League.

"Clark says Chloe got up in the night two days ago and wandered into his room."

"She did." Clark nodded. "She was cold and she got under the covers on her own. She also said she was worried about Lois."

"Did she say what had happened to her?"

"No. I asked, but that was a mistake. She just started quoting poetry again."

"Huh?" Oliver got that Chloe liked to read, but when she did it was almost always something like _The__Rootkit__Arsenal_. If she was quoting anything, he thought, it would be program code. But why would she do it in response to questions? Was this what people with low dorsal-whatever activity did?

"She does that when she's asked questions," Lois said. "At lunch today I forgot and asked her what she wanted to eat and she started in on _Green__Eggs__and__Ham_. In the doctor's _professional_opinion, that's one of the things that makes her case so unusual. Amazing what four years of medical school will teach you."

"But she was able to talk to you the other night normally?" he asked Clark.

"Before I started asking questions, yes, but it was after she saw Lois for the first time. I think it may have to do with seeing people she cares about. I've been hoping that if she spent some time with you," the other man said pointedly, "she might have another break-through."

He nodded. That made as much sense as anything did right now. Ephemeral as it all seemed, he realized his heart was sprinting in his chest, beating harder than it had the entire week in Bludhaven on the trail of a group of shoot-first-ask-questions-later gun-runners.

"I should go talk to her then," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Seeing Chloe again wasn't at all the way Oliver imagined it would be. He'd imagined sweeping her up and holding her as she clutched at him, neither one letting go until they were someplace where they could get to the naked part of their reunion. He'd imagined smiles and tears and vows to never to be apart again. He'd imagined it so hard that the reality, here and now, felt as if it were happening to another person, a different Oliver Queen faced with a woman who was not Chloe Sullivan.

And yet, he had to remind himself, this was real. Chloe was indeed sitting on the couch in Clark's living room, looking still and serene, like her mother had the one time he'd seen her. In this case, however, the effect was chilling rather than sad. When he'd visited Moira her eyes were shut, which gave the illusion of sleep. Chloe's were wide open and happily focused on nothing, which gave the illusion she was insane. He sat on the rocker across from her and tried to think of what to say. Nothing he'd imagined seemed appropriate.

"Chloe, it's Ollie," he told her finally. "Can - right, no questions. Uh, look at me."

Dutifully her head tilted turned toward him. She seemed to see him, but in the same way she had seemed to see the fire that was burning. He was not her lover Oliver to her. He was just something else to look at.

_Now__what__?_ he thought. He had a million questions he couldn't ask. Everything he wanted to know, everything he hoped she might say, was locked inside her mind and no one had the key. "I just got back from Bludhaven," he told her, for lack of anything better. And why not? No one else had asked about the mission. He knew Chloe would have though. She would have wanted to hear every detail in order to pick through them with that analytical mind of hers. "I was chasing around a group of guys you would have found interesting. It would have been nice to get your input on this one. Mercy thinks they're an off-shoot of Intergang looking to stake out some territory there, but that's a pretty big play; they haven't tried anything like that since Morgan Edge died. Plus everyone operating in Bludhaven's under orders from a family in Gotham, and Intergang doesn't have the muscle built up to take any of those guys on.

"So we've been arguing about it, of course. That seems to be what we do best. I say, if they are connected to Intergang, it's 'cuz Mannheim put up a stake: he's the money, but he's not running the show. It just doesn't feel as if they're setting up shop. But, Mercy says the chatter she's picked up is Mannheim's very interested in the project in Bludhaven. She won't tell me who's the mouth behind the intel though, so I don't know how seriously to take it. And there are issues there, between us - I mean, obviously there are. There always have been, and now she doesn't want to share her contacts and I gotta wonder if she's feeding any of this info to Waller, trying to get back into her good graces, or if the info she's getting is from Waller. I mean, why else wouldn't she tell us? But I can't think that, because we needed her, we decided to trust her, so I gotta trust her. And I'm babbling, so I'm gonna shut up now," he finished.

He didn't know what else to say. She had no insights for him, no thoughtful questions, no answers. He'd missed that about working with her; every conversation they'd had gave him a new idea. He'd missed that so much, had dreamt about it so many times, the kind of happy dream in which every problem was miraculously solved and all he had to do was live happily ever after or until the alarm went off, whichever came first. He had lived for those dreams in the beginning, for hearing her tell him again and again how proud she was of him and how much she loved him. As the months wore on, though, he'd begun to dread them more than any nightmare. For every dream there was a waking, and every waking was to a day in which she was still gone and time was rushing by.

In the beginning he had been angry and determined and confident that nobody could keep anything he wanted from him. He was Oliver Queen. More than that, he was the Green Arrow. For weeks he had called in every chit he had, hounded every cop he came across, cornered every thug he could find. He'd driven poor Bart mercilessly until Clark and J'onn intervened. He'd even bullied Tess into arranging a meeting with Waller, but that had turned out to be in vain. Her comm to her former boss was cold. The White Queen apparently had nothing to say to them.

The last month or so he'd gone from relentless to … tired. Part of that was the lack of sleep, but part was the waiting. He'd gotten so tired of waiting. Nothing was happening, nothing more was coming in. He'd told himself the case was still open, they'd find her, they were just waiting for a new lead. It wasn't until now, sitting directly across from her, that he realized he'd stopped expecting one.

Hadn't wanted one.

Had wanted it to be over.

Now she was back, and it was so not over. It had barely even begun.

He stared at the rug and tried not think about how great a drink would be. He hadn't had one since his captors had handed him off for her, hadn't trusted himself to have one, and he didn't think now was the time to start. He glanced up. She was still calmly staring at him, oblivious to his own inattentiveness. She didn't care that he'd given up. She couldn't even be aware that he had.

"I'm gonna go now," he said. "I missed you so much. I still miss you. If you can remember anything, remember that, OK? I missed you and I can't believe you're back. It's... it's really good to have you back." He stood. Her gaze remained where it had been. He walked to the porch door, mulling excuses he could make to get Clark out of there for an hour or so. He had to do something. Whatever Emil had told him, Ollie wanted to know.

She was on the porch. How she had gotten there she had no idea; the last thing she remembered was shivering in Clark's room.

_Maybe__Clark__brought__me__down__here__. __If__so__, __where__had__he__gone__?_ she wondered. _And__why__?_

It was colder out here than it would be in his room. Colder, and somehow militant. The moon was full and the trees and barns and fence all stood in sharp vigil under it. She felt as if she was standing guard with them. Maybe that was why Clark had brought her here, to watch and raise the alarm if they were attacked. That made the most sense. The stars, she noticed, were hard and bright, as if they too were watching in the night. She curled her toes against the cold and watched with them.

Behind her, the porch light burst on, obliterating her view.

"Chloe," she heard Clark say. "You shouldn't be out here. It's freezing."

"I'm watching," she said. "They could come at any time."

"I would hear them if they did," he answered slowly. "Come inside."

She scrunched her feet a few times to get the blood flowing. They felt icier than the boards beneath them. "You're supposed to be asleep. You can't hear everything."

"Chloe, come inside."

She shook her head. "He's coming, Clark."

She heard the creak of the boards beneath his feet, knew that he was coming for her, to take her in. The cold, which had been her ally in the dark, turned on her and invaded, setting her to trembling. The sudden heat of his belly against her back was a shock that only made it worse.

"If he comes, I can be out there to stop him before he knows what hit him."

He could. She knew he could. Clark could beat anything. Why then was she so afraid? Why was she shaking so?

"Please," he said. "If you come inside, we can watch for him together."

That made no sense at all, she thought, then sighed. The heat of him was finally soaking into her skin, through her back and from her abdomen where his arms were crossed over her. The contrast with her feet, bare against the world, was sharp. It might be unhealthy to stay out here, she thought. She would be no good to anyone if she caught sick, and Clark was equal to anything they'd come across in the past.

"Alright," she said. "Let's go in."


End file.
